Special Ops

The morning sun cast a dim ruddy light through Frank’s single window. He missed the cheerful yellow light of Sol, though in this incarnation he had never been to Earth. Though his heart was attuned to his home planet’s local star, his eyes weren’t. He pulled himself from the Jesus tank and towelled himself dry.

“Curtis, blinds,” he ordered the room, squinting in the Betelguesian glare; he stumbled to the wall and unfolded the kitchen. “Koff, breakfast.” Without further instruction Curtis produced a mug of synthetic coffee and a plate of egg material grown in a vat from imported tissue.

“Curtis, sitrep,” through his ‘plant, Frank heard the usually sarcastic, mostly sardonic, frequently cynical and for some reason, Russian accented voice of his AI.

“White team mission successful. Target adequately nullified. The strike leader’s remains were returned to his quarters for resurrection.”

“How bad was it?”

“They found your toe, Sir.”

“Damn.”

“Indeed, Sir.”

Frank folded the kitchen away, unfolding the bathroom in the process.

“Um… Curtis?”

“Sir?”

“Where’s my dick?”

“Gender reassignment was necessary for the current mission specs.” Frank could have sworn the AI snickered.

Frank turned to the mirror and gasped in horror discovering that he was now a young, attractive, red headed female with, he had to grudgingly admit, nice tits. “Curtis,” Frank asked a quaver in his voice, “what are the current mission parameters?”

This time there was no mistaking Curtis’ outright guffaw. “You are to infiltrate Kim Sung Mung’s compound as a,” here the AI broke off in uncontrolled laughter.

“Curtis!”

“Sorry, Sir. You are to infiltrate the Asiatic commander’s compound as a pleasure companion.”

“OH GAWD, NO!”

“Shall I pack your mouthwash, Sir?”

The AI’s derisive guffaws could be heard in the corridor outside and beyond.